My Husband's First Wife
by Jocospock
Summary: This person got married to a man and his two kids, and the man leaves a note that leaves the viewers thinking it's suicide, but is it? And really pay attention to the underlined words at the end because that's what ties it together.


I had just moved in with my new husband and his two teenage kids a few months ago, and I know it's hard to trust someone who is acting in the place of their mother. Their mother had died approximately a year ago, and they took her death pretty hard. I have tried to talk to them before, but they seem resent me. For example; if I were to enter a room, they would either leave, pretend to be asleep, or put their headphones in.

I don't want to cause more trouble than it's worth, so I try to avoid my husband's kids at all costs. I'm not asking my husband to pick me over his children, but that's how it sounded to him when I had a talk with him one night. He blew up in a rage, and an explosion of divergent emotions filled his now unholy, derived face as he stormed out of the house. Whenever he got stressed, he would usually turn to drinking as an outlet. Or at least he has since the Mrs. passed. Sometimes he cries in the bathroom late at night thinking no one could hear him, and that he's all alone. But little does he know, his children cry just as much.

I sometimes wonder if I should be here, the vibe I get from the house in general is really negative. I went to sleep that night expecting to see him asleep beside me the following morning, but instead—I found a note.

_"I am sorry, but I have left to be with my wife. Tell my kids I love them, and I hope to see them again where our little family will once again be united as one." xoxoxo Jack_

I stood there in utter shock. What does this mean? Was this a suicide note? I heard footsteps outside my bedroom door, but when I opened it; there was nothing there. I shouldn't be surprised though, this happened pretty often. I always told my husband that the house was haunted. I realize now that that was probably not a good idea.

I wonder how I should tell the kids. I wonder how they would take it. They should be getting up for school soon. I often hear voices in my head. They used to scare me at first, but not anymore. It's only been a few months after I first moved in, and I have lost all compassion for everything. Whenever I see a cat along side the road, I always go out of my way to kick it. I used to love cats, and now I look at the days that pass thinking each day just gets worse and worse, and now this happens. I lost all love for my husband the few times he beat me in a drunken rage, but I do feel bad for his kids.

Sometimes I stay up wondering why I stayed, or maybe even why I got married to my husband in the first place. My motto always was to never mess with a married man, but he said not to worry about it. When his wife found out about us, she couldn't take all the pain and she just ended it all. This put a bad taste in my mouth, and to compensate, I married him a little out of pity. Don't get me wrong; we've had our share of fun times together, but it never really lasted long. He always told me how worthless I was, and that I was a whore. Me—a whore! Can you believe it? Well, not to speak ill of the diseased, but he's shut-up now.

I heard the creaking of the kid's bedroom doors, and I heard them run down the stairs. Or—at least I hope it was them and not the voices in my head playing mind games with me. I threw my robe on and grabbed the note as I left the room closing the door behind me. This wasn't going to be easy, this might put them over the edge, which I wouldn't exactly do much about to be quite honest. I walked slowly into the kitchen where they sat eating breakfast, and a hesitantly place the note from their dead father onto the table. I then look down at the note, and it had blood on it. I thought it was weird that I hadn't noticed it before, but I guess that would just add to the effect of the note.

My past husband's daughter read the note first, followed by his son. Their facial expressions said it all, and the drop of the daughter's milk glass seemed to be represented in slow-motion. I just stood there, with a saddened face of course because I didn't want them to think I didn't care. Tears rolled down their cheeks from their blaring red eyes. But the strangest thing happened—they blamed me! They used their fingers and all, but not just to point, but to dial. They dialed 911, and soon after—the police were knocking on our front door.

My past husband's children went ballistic and started telling the cops all the threats I have made towards their father over the short course of time I have been living there. I couldn't recall anything they were saying, so naturally I denied everything. The policemen left that night, but the next day; I came home to my house being thoroughly searched. I couldn't go in because it was considered a "crime scene" but I wasn't going to be known as the psycho killer on the block. I wanted to make a name for myself, but not like this. I walked around observing their actions. They had canine units sniffing around the perimeter of the property, and there were some people with shovels digging around.

I couldn't do anything to stop them, I didn't want to get arrested or anything. All of a sudden I heard loud barks and howls sounding the premises, but it came from inside the house. I heard talk about it coming from the basement, and I followed everyone into the basement. Many cops and construction workers had begun tearing up the basement floor. My past husband's kids stood silently crying in the corner. I looked back and forth, scanning everyone's faces and the shock on each when they found the body…

The cops escorted the kids out of the room because they didn't want to put them through the trauma of seeing their father's body basically slaughtered. Just when I thought the worst had happened, another cop came running in yelling he found the bloody clothes—they were in the community well. I wanted to sneak out, but as soon as I turned around; I felt someone pet something restricting around my wrists followed by the very phrase I was dreading, "You're under arrest."

I was being pulled out of the house, and placed in a nearby cop car. As the car drove away, I saw the kids eyeing me the whole time until I disappeared. Under request from the judge, I had been medically checked out. The doctor was baffed to why I couldn't remember anything. He said it could be a number of things: Multi-personality disorder, early onset of Alzheimer, or I could just be a psychopath that does remember, but chooses not to say anything.

After many, many tests; the doctor came to the conclusion that I have all three. I was told this before, back when I was institutionalized, but naturally I forgot. Things often slip my mind, so I guess that makes sense. The doctor asked me if I felt any remorse for what I have done. I answered with a no, because I forgot what I was being questioned about—but my answer is what made him think I was a psychopath. I didn't think he had the right to make that kind of judgment because I thought that was the job of a Psychiatrist, but I guess my opinions don't matter. I'm now locked up in a strait jacket telling people who are willing to listen to my story, but nobody ever listens. Ever since I was labeled a compulsive liar, they just kind of leave. I haven't seen an actual living person for many years now. I'm known as crazy, and apparently I had a nervous breakdown and lie about literally everything. Who could you really trust? Nobody believes me, and by everybody; I mean the voices in my head. I have suffered brain damage from when I was young and my mother hit me on the head repeatedly with a frying pan until I passed out.

It always really bothered me about my mother because she abandoned my seven little siblings and I when I was twelve. I heard she over-dosed on ketchup and got hit by a cargo ship when she was swimming the Gulf of Mexico. Why won't anybody heed my stories? Who wants to listen to me? Will you listen to me?

The miserable life of Daniel Young...


End file.
